Cuando Muera El Trovador

The day you fall
On any road
The trills of the last singer will fade
And over the distance that always separates us
The flowers of your memory will bloom

The day when in the ranches
The strings of your Creole guitar are not heard
Rhyming a song
Could it be that the soul of my race is in mourning?
Could it be that the gaucho troubadour has already left?

When the echo of the folk song fades
A deep silence will spread across the land
The strings of our guitars will be cut
And the fretboard will wear a mourning ribbon

Then the roads will mourn
The gauchos of my land crying with emotion
And in the midst of the silence of their deep sorrow
They will shout to the world: tradition has died!